Homecoming
by teawithlucifer
Summary: Hmmm. Au fic Where John is in Afghanistan and Sherlock is married to him. Major angsty heart-wrenching sadness. Please read. this is a one-shot.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock stood on the tarmac, nervously twisting the plain silver wedding band on his finger. His mind was racing, imagining a thousand different ways this reunion could take place. He was so deep in thought he didn't notice the two cars that pulled up behind him. His only thoughts were for his husband, John.

DI Greg Lestrade got out of his cruiser, briefly glancing at the black hearse he had pulled up next to before returning his attention to the slim man standing alone on the tarmac. "Sherlock? Where in the bloody hell have you been?! I've been phoning you all day!"

Sherlock pulled his attention from the plane that was just landing to glance at the grey-haired man standing next to him. He sighed. "Really, Lestrade? I always knew that your officers were inept, but this is just pathetic."

"What are you…"

"You're obviously here to ask for my help."

"How did you know that?"

Sherlock fixed the man with a withering stare. " Judging by the bags under your eyes and the coffee stain on the bottom edge of your tie, you haven't left the station since yesterday. That means a case, probably a serial killer. Your eyes are blood shot, your hair ruffled, and the nail of your left thumb is all but gnawed off, all signs that point to you being stressed. Why? Obviously there's a new serial killer, high profile, and you need the case solved quickly, so you came to me."

Greg just shrugged tiredly. "So you got me. Will you help?"

"No."

"No? On a normal day you'd jump with joy at a serial killer, especially since you haven't had a case in nearly a week. You must be out of your mind with boredom."

"You're correct, for once. **Normally **I'd be delighted to assist your inept officers in the apprehension of a serial criminal, but today is not a normal day. I've got something much more important on my mind." Sherlock smiled and turned back to the plane that was now coming to a stop near the crowd of families waiting to be reunited with their loved ones.

Baffled, Lestrade from the consulting detective to the soldiers who were now getting off the plane, creating many tearful scenes as they were reunited with their families. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock ignored the question, his eyes scanning the mass of people in front of the plane, looking for the sandy hair and blue eyes of his John. He wondered what was taking the man so long to get to him. A small bubble of fear settled into the pit of his stomach as he watched six men in their dress uniforms waiting to unload something from the cargo hold. He could guess as to what it was. Sherlock's mind kicked into over drive. It wasn't possible; he'd have been notified if something had happened, right? Unconsciously, he began to worry the band on his finger, twisting it round and round.

Lestrade noticed the action with curiosity and concern. He had never seen the man act so…emotional. "Sherlock, are you here to pick someone up?" At the man's distracted nod, Greg continued. "Who are you here to pick up? …And is that a wedding band on your finger?"

Sherlock didn't bother to turn and face the D.I. as he answered. " Yes, it is. Not really my style, but he insisted. I'm here to pick up my husband, Captain John Watson-Holmes."

Lestrade knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't help it. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined Sherlock Holmes in a relationship, much less a marriage, and with a military man at that! He opened his mouth to question the lanky man further, but before he could Sherlock was approached by several of the men who had disembarked from the plane.

Each man wore a somber look as they stood in front of a suddenly wary consulting detective. Lestrade felt a prickle of dread race down his spine and he hoped for Sherlock's sake that his dread was misplaced. God only knew that Sherlock has had more than his fair share of bad news and death in his life; for once he deserved some good news.

Sherlock's mind went into overdrive as he observed the men standing in front of him. Each one had eyes that showed their relief at being home, their horror at what they had seen, and their grief for those they had lost. He also noted that each man had been invalided home from the war. The man in the front came to attention in front of Sherlock before speaking.

"Sir. I…um… We wanted to let you know that we owe each and every one of our lives to Captain Watson. He saved our lives twice over, and he was a great man."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it. He tried once more, licking his lips. "Twice? It's obvious that you were all wounded in action, and, judging by the fact that you're all still here, I'd say that John was the medic who was assigned to your platoon. What I don't get is the second time; if you were all injured and sent home immediately, how did he save your lives a second time? Better yet, where is John?" By the end of this little tirade Sherlock's voice had taken on an agitated tone that was bordering on panic.

The soldier who had spoken earlier looked at Sherlock with a horrified look of realization. "Oh god. You don't know? You should've been notified…"

"Don't know what?" Sherlock demanded. "And don't try to mollycoddle me either. I can tell that you took two pain pills approximately six hours ago, ate the complementary biscuits by dipping them in coffee, which you took black, and that your young wife is wearing peach tinted chapstick. I'll know if you lie to me."

"You really are as brilliant as John said. I don't know how to tell you this."

"From the beginning would be appreciated," interrupted the consulting detective impatiently.

"We were ambushed while out on patrol. It was a short firefight, as they go, but we had the bad fortune to catch several bullets. It was John who pulled us into shelter and managed to keep us from bleeding out until help arrived. It was only when the hospital staff was readying us to be sent home that they told us we were lucky that our medic had such pluck. It turns out that John had been hit in the hip, nothing serious but enough to get him discharged. He helped load each of us into the chopper before he passed out from blood loss. That was all we heard of him until we were in the airport. We were all standing around when he comes limping up to us, the biggest grin you've ever seen stretched across his lips. That was when it happened." The soldier paused, as if he were physically unable to continue with his story.

"Please," whispered Holmes in a voice Lestrade had never heard coming from his mouth. "I need to know what happened, where he is."

The soldier nodded. "We were waiting to board when a man stood up and started shouting and waving something around. It wasn't until we saw him pull the pin that we realized it was a grenade. The Captain… he… I've never seen anybody react so quickly. Before we could react or any civilians could start panicking Captain Watson fired a shot, dropping the man. Then without a second of hesitation he did what he was trained to do. I'm so sorry for your loss, but for what it's worth, your husband saved countless lives with his actions."

The soldier withdrew something from a pocket of his fatigues and pressed it into Sherlock's hand, but the man wasn't paying attention. His gazed was fixed on the six soldiers in dress uniform who were heading in this direction bearing a simple pine coffin draped in a union flag. As the coffin passed the group of returned soldiers, they snapped to attention one final time as their captain passed, saluting the hero.

Sherlock was numb. He looked down at the items in his hand. He could vaguely make out the blurred shapes of a dog tag and a plain, silver wedding band through his tears. Noises that can only be described as pure grief tore from his throat as he fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. For once his mind was utterly blank but for one word: John. He looked at the box being placed into the back of the hearse and felt his soul shrivel and die. He didn't register the looks of pity the soldiers and their families cast his direction, nor did he register Lestrade pulling him up into an embrace and then leading him towards his squad car. He didn't care. John was gone. There would be no passionate homecoming, no joyous reunion with the only man he had ever loved. Captain John Watson was gone, and Sherlock Holmes was lost without his soldier.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for actually reading this. Just to clarify, "what he was trained to do" refers to the reaction that is drilled into military personnel (at least it is in the navy…) that you throw yourself on a grenade to save your comrades. It's a common practice at least at the USNA that midshipmen will throw something near a plebe and shout grenade. The plebe is expected to jump on the grenade and cover it with their body. Thanks for reading this fic! Reviews are really really nice **


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